Recollect
by DJ Caligula
Summary: When Prince Rabadash begins his courtship of Queen Susan of Narnia, she starts to remember her past. SusanRabadash. Reviews always appreciated.
1. The Tournament

_Recollect _

It was said of Prince Rabadash of Calormen, even when he was a little boy, that he never wanted anything by halves, and even then he always got what he wanted. The Calormene tarkaans in his retinue, who were always fond of old maxims, were amused to see this particular old maxim being proved true yet again. The Prince had taken it upon himself to visit the barbarian country of Narnia, and barbarian country or no, the Prince had declared the greatest tournament the world had ever seen would be awaiting him there.

The Prince was right, of course. The Prince would always obtain his heart's desire, the lords whispered sagely amongst themselves. Tash save the benighted fool who ever dared to cross him!

The magnificence of the promised tournament seemed to almost impress Rabadash, who tried very hard to be unimpressed by everything. It seemed that half the world had appeared at Cair Paravel, for the great tourney and festival that the High King of Narnia held in honor for His Calormene Majesty. Beneath the ivory turrets and towers of the magnificent castle, lay a vast green lawn where thronged a crowd that caused much unease and amazement to the otherwise sophisticated tarkaans, when they first set eyes upon it. These men from the southern desert were used to very many strange things; like giant rocs who flew through the sky and nested in valleys of diamonds, and cannibals, and cyclopes, and strange men in the distant mountains who had heads in their stomachs, and worshipped gods with the heads of dogs. Yet even they had never seen a sight so fantastic, in all their born days.

There were people, of course. There were the townspeople of Beruna and Chippingford jostling to get into the stands to get the best seat, and there were knights in glittering armor upon prancing horses, with their faithful squires and pages, as well as ladies with chaplets of flowers upon their flowing hair. Yet the men and women seemed outnumbered by the preternatural; like proud centaurs, mischievous satyrs, little fauns, graceful dryads, stout dwarves, burly, rough-faced giants and the fantastic talking beasts for which this little northern country was famous- owls, mice, badgers, bears, all large, sleek creatures with the gleam of intelligence in their round eyes. And amidst these motley Narnian crowd there stood the Calormenes, trying not to gape. Indeed, the pale gentlefolk and talking beasts found them equally as peculiar, and stared with great curiosity at the swarthy and handsome tarkaans, with their oiled beards, bejeweled turbans, flowing brocade robes, and slippers with pointed toes.

Now, the reason for the Calormene presence in Narnia was hardly a secret, to even the youngest cub of the youngest talking bear in the most deserted part of Ettinsmoor. It seemed that the whole world knew how Rabadash, the Prince of the Calormenes and the son of the Tisroc (may he live forever, as the Calormenes were fond of saying) had come to Narnia to pay court Queen Susan the Gentle, one of the four familial sovereigns of that country. It had been said that a political alliance between the Queen and the ruling dynasty of the Tisroc of Calormen would be only a good thing for relations between the two countries, although it was also said- except not quite as loudly- that the High King Peter had reservations about the wisdom of such a scheme, given the ambitions of the current Tisroc. But, be that as it may, Prince Rabadash proved a gallant knight, and made a brave sight upon the tilting-field. Queen Susan did not seem insensible to his charms either, it was whispered. It was noted especially with great interest by the Calormene lords that she had the most interesting habit of gazing fixedly at him, as if he were the only thing in the world she seemed to see.

On that opening day of the tournament, the prince rode up to the queen, before he took his place in the lists. She sat with her brothers, King Peter and King Edmund, and her sister, Queen Lucy, upon thrones in the center of the grandstands, upon a garlanded dais. Queen Susan was one of the most celebrated beauties of the world, and it was easy to see why. The regal damsel was in the full bloom of her youth. Her dainty oval face was pale, and her long dreamy eyes were blue. Her black hair, falling in thick plaits down her back, was interlaced with jewels, while a golden circlet gleamed upon her brow, and a dress of rose silk fit her lissome form like a sheath. It was true, as envious girls and admiring men whispered upon themselves, that it was exactly as the troubadours sang: that as King Peter was the scepter, King Edmund was the book, and Queen Lucy was the light, Queen Susan herself was both the rose and the lily of Narnia. Indeed, to the people and creatures in the stands, these four monarchs were not merely mortal crowned heads, to be set aside when younger blood came along. They were holy beings, more like fairies than to sons of Adam and daughters of Eve.

Yet all eyes were not preoccupied by the charms of Queen Susan. Prince Rabadash himself made a glorious sight, in his gilded southern armor and spiked helmet, wrapped with a turban of peacock-blue silk, upon a magnificent black charger of the finest desert stock. He was tall for a Calormene- even taller than most Narnians, who prided themselves on their lofty stature- and was slender as a willow branch, with dark olive skin, a fine-boned face, a sensuous mouth, a long, narrow nose as curved as a scimitar, and restless eyes that peered out of his face, as bright and sharp as chips of obsidian. For all his slim build, there was a pleasing width to his shoulders, and he sat astride and gripped the reins of his steed with an easy confidence that spoke of years being trained in the saddle.

Although the Narnian gentlemen scowled and muttered under their breath, many of their ladies giggled at the sight of him. "My, isn't he a pretty gentleman," one of Susan's attendants- a plump girl with her bosom almost bursting from her neckline- whispered to her friend. "I know her Majesty is not like us- and never thinks of such things- but for all that he is a Calormene, I should love to find myself alone in the woods with him sometime!"

"You are shameless, Clarinda!" said her companion, elbowing her, but the shameless Clarinda merely laughed and continued ogling the foreign prince.

It did not surprise them in the least to see their queen remove the veil from her hair, and press it upon the Calormene, who grinned, his teeth brilliantly white against the bronze of his face. When he kissed the veil, and pressed it to his forehead, and to his heart, Susan's ladies-in-waiting all sighed in unison. He tied it then to his lance, and declared, loudly, with his rich, sibilant southern accent all the more marked: "My queen, I shall treasure this favor you bestow upon me more than jewels and spices of Tashbaan. I shall cherish this until the hour my breath leaves my body, since this has touched your fair person, which is more sacred to me than my life."

At such stirring words, King Edmund, on the other side of the dais, leaned over to his older brother, the High King, and murmured very softly in his ear.

"That Calormene prince is very smooth with words," he muttered, "yet I fain would not trust him, brother. You know how those southerners love to charm with their intricate locutions, but their intentions are not always as pure as they would like you to believe."

King Peter said nothing- he merely stroked his beard, and looked suspiciously at Prince Rabadash.

"I wonder if our sister truly has considered the implications of her gift to the Tisroc's son," Edmund continued.

"I truly doubt it, my brother," replied the High King, and shot a narrow look at his sister, the fair Queen Susan.

The queen who was the subject of so much gossip and speculation, sat upon her golden throne, insensible to all of it. All she could look at was Prince Rabadash, who rode into the tilting-field, against the stalwart Sir Triamond. She sat upon the throne, in her jewels and silks, concentrating entirely on the dark-faced prince. Part of her had never become quite used to the fact that she had become such an irresistible lodestone for men. She kept marveling over the fact that he had rode up from the north, like a wolf upon the fold, for the simple reason of gaining her hand in marriage. Who couldn't be flattered by such single-mindedness?

Yet although he was attractive and exotic, and her heart did indeed beat faster when she looked at him, she wasn't quite sure just why she was staring at Rabadash in such a fixed way. That strange feeling had come over her again- although perhaps she shouldn't call it strange, as she felt it every day- almost every hour- even every minute. It was that disconnected feeling. Whenever she felt this way, she felt compelled to cling to something, anything, just so she didn't drift away, like a piece of eiderdown.

All of this- the tourney, the pageantry, the festivities, the diplomatic negotiations with Calormen- seemed unreal to her. But then, when she really thought about it, so had the past fourteen years. It was a strange thing, she thought, staring into the distance, as the knights clashed with a fearsome clamor of arms upon the field, to be nearly six and twenty years, but to feel that she had lived her entire life in a dream. She barely remembered last week, less so last month. Last year might have well have been a century ago, it was so shrouded in fog. Was this a normal thing? It seemed as if she had lived a life that was no more real, no more solid, than glittering shifting shapes.

Occasionally, though, the vague doings of her life did crystallize into images, like a series of illuminations, although she would be hard pressed to place them in chronological order. Now, see: there was Susan, upon a pretty white palfrey, at the head of a parade. Susan, being serenaded by minstrels. Susan, at a tournament, sitting upon a throne. Susan, being courted by a southern prince…

She continued staring at Rabadash, who now rode like a demon against another knight. She vaguely recognized the other knight to be a certain Sir Mardian, who was apparently attempting to avenge the indignity of Sir Triamond, who had since been overthrown, his lance shattered. The clarions sounded, and the stands cheered, but she scarce paid attention, so lost was she in her thoughts.

She had met Calormenes before. She did not hold them in such distrust as her brother Edmund; she found them to be a most interesting, colorful people, with their fanciful clothing and ornate etiquette. When she first met this son of the Tisroc, only a few days ago, he behaved much as she imagined a southern prince would. The richness of his robes were unsurpassed, his manners were studied, perfect; he murmured the most charming compliments, even though they sounded like things he had said to a thousand other women. And he was beautiful, in that alien way- with his neatly trimmed mustache and beard of night-black hair against supple olivine skin, his smell of sandalwood and spiced oils, and his voice, lilting and sinuous and smooth. Sometimes, when she felt his eyes upon her- those uptilted eyes as dark as volcanic glass- she found it hard to even breathe.

There was something not very _comfortable _about Rabadash. There was something in his gaze, his manner- a combination of boldness, insolence, arrogance and thinly concealed desire- that seemed to slice across her skin like a knife. It was not the most pleasant feeling. But, in an odd way- it seemed to wake her up- and shake her out of the fog she had grown so used to. Being near him seemed to conjure up all sorts of strange images. They were images she could scarcely understand- and they frightened her, if she thought too much about them. Such as sitting in a darkened room, with pictures formed of light playing upon a sheet of canvas. Or lying in a room, leafing through a book with writing too smooth and even to be ever written by human hands, while strange shrill mechanical sounds emerged from the streets outside…

But even more than that; this prince actually reminded her of someone. Yet she could not place who. It was not as if she had never had seen any Calormenes before, but this wasn't that… it was something that had happened _before_.

"Before Narnia?" Lucy would say in amusement, whenever she brought up the subject to her. "But my sister, there was never any time 'before Narnia.' We have always lived here."

No we haven't! Susan wanted to cry, but she never could actually say anything- her tongue always tied in knots. We've come from somewhere _else-_ but she could never recollect what that _else_ happened to be. Sometimes, in dreams, images of that other place, that before-place, came to her- in colors of gray, brown, and rusty black. It was a very dingy, dreary sort of place, she knew, and she knew she should be happy to be here, in a land where the sky was a brilliant blue, the castles were as white as ivory, and the land was as green as chrysoprase and emerald. She lived a life that was filled with music, with beauty, with jewels and flowers and laughter. But-

There was always that _else_, and until she remembered what that could be, it was as if she walked always with a pebble in her shoe. Most of the time she could ignore it, but at other times, it became absolutely excruciating.

If she could only recollect, she told herself as she squeezed her eyes shut, than she wouldn't feel that she might be going slowly insane…

****


	2. She recollects

_2. She recollects _

Meanwhile, with apparent ease, Prince Rabadash triumphed over Sir Mardian, piercing his side and tipping him off his horse. Knight after knight he upset, wreaking merciless havoc upon the warriors of the Narnian party, until none were left standing, and all were borne away from the field with minor wounds of some sort. After the clearly reluctant High King declared him the victor of the field that day, Rabadash dismounted, removed his helmet, and kneeled before Susan, in the dirt below her.

His blue-black ringlets were matted and damp with sweat, glistening and curling like ivy against his head, and he breathed as heavily as if he'd just finished running several miles. He swallowed and wiped his brow; then he looked up and threw his arm out in a most dramatic gesture, so that his gem-studded gauntlets glittered as if they had caught fire.

"O peerless queen," he declared. "O pearl of the age, I owe you more than I can ever say! Your beauty, goodness, graciousness and chastity have inspired me, and the favor which you deigned to give your servant has caused me to prevail this day. I lay my victories at your feet, most divine beauty; I pray that you might accept them, for I am naught but dust underneath your feet; I can only place a petition before you, like the lowliest pilgrim or the most beggarly slave, to kiss the hem of thy garment."

His position was all humility, and his words were all courteousness; but there was something in the way his sloe eyes regarded her, that made her feel, strangely, as he were the one standing upon the platform, and she were the one below.

"Your Highness," said Susan, a little breathlessly, "is only too kind to attribute your bravery to me. If your lordship so desires, than you may mount the dais and give your thanks in person." Saying this, she felt a thrill, and heard the stands begin to buzz with wonder at such strange protocol, and to extend a foreigner such a favor. She even heard a little gasp from Lucy, and felt the eyes of her brothers upon her. Well, she didn't care what they thought. She was a queen too, and she would do as she wished!

Rabadash smirked as he quickly climbed up the stairs to where she stood. As he approached her, her throat constricted. Although his build was slim, he was much taller than she was. She heard the faint clink of his mail shirt and the rustle of his samite tunic, and breathed in his scent. Quickly, he yanked off his right gauntlet, leaving a brown and sinewy hand bare, and took the pale hand that she slowly and smilingly extended. As his warm fingers encircled hers, she shivered, and as his head lowered and his mouth pressed into the flesh above her knuckles, she struggled to keep her face still. He kissed her hand with lips that were hot and moist, and he lingered there a moment or two longer than necessary. It was very hard to remember that she stood in the middle of the greatest tourney ever held in Narnia; for a moment she could not help but think that she was all alone in the world with this… very attractive young man.

When he finally looked back up at her, his eyes were very black and large in his face, and he stared at her with such transparent desire she almost felt as if she had been struck. Her cheeks flushed; and a wave of heat overcame her, over a body which- to tell the truth- she had scarcely thought about before now. The lacings on the side of her gown grew suddenly very tight, and she became very conscious how the silk stretched over her breasts and hips.

And it was, then, suddenly she remembered where she had seen one like Rabadash before. It was in that other place, that before-place; in London.

London, she thought to herself in shock- where she had been just plain Susan, Susan Pevensie, and for a brief time she had fancied the dark-skinned son of a Hindu cornershop owner, near their flat in Berkeley Square. She had flirted with him, shyly, when she had gone in to buy ginger beer or sweets or other assorted groceries, and he had always helped her first, even if there were other customers in line. Perhaps he had looked a bit like Rabadash, with his black curly hair and olive complexion, but he had only been sixteen at the most.

Yet she had been twelve years old at the time- with budding breasts, and no monthly flow. A plainly dressed schoolgirl, in a plaid skirt and sensible shoes, in a world of automobiles, and movie magazines, and department stores, and the Underground, and air raid drills….

So, how… How in the name of God did she get _here_, with a woman's body, but with none of a woman's memories? Rabadash still stood only a few feet from her, still staring at her as if he wanted to push her on the ground and ravish her, and no doubt to a Queen of Narnia this manner of behavior should be considered highly offensive…

I bleed every month, she thought, with increasing hysteria, and I do not remember when I started. How did my breasts get this large? Why have I never dated a boy? Why have I never married? Where am I? Oh God, where is my _mother_?

_Mother, mother! _she wanted to scream. _Where are you_? _Where have you gone?_

And so overwhelmed- she started gulping for air- and blackness overtook her.

_(to be continued...)_


	3. She wakes up

_3. She wakes up_

When Susan finally became conscious again, she first became aware of warm sunlight on her face, soft silken blankets tucked about her, and the fragrance of lavender.

_Am I home? _she wondered sleepily. Was she back in Berkeley Square? She could just see Mum with her blue fox stole tossed carelessly over her shoulder, adjusting her cunning new hat with its spotted veil over her face, complaining how once again the new housekeeper she'd hired was failing to clean the dirt off the top of the radio. "Darling," she could just hear her mother saying. "Could you be a dear and take Lucy to her piano practice? I would myself but Mrs. Bentham just rang and told me that she needs help in picking out some floral arrangements for her supper party on Saturday. You know Clare takes forever in deciding these things, and she has absolutely no sense of color. Oh, thank you, dearest, I knew I could count on you!"

She could just hear her mother's voice- plummy and clipped as Anna Neagle's voice in _Victoria the Great_- rambling on in the way she thought socialites talked, even Susan knew perfectly well that her mother was born to a family of eight in Ballymena in Ulster, and could not remotely be considered posh. She always wished she could tell her mother to bugger off, and act like a mother for a change, instead of a professor's wife, more interested in her husband's social life and the prospect of tenure than in what her children were doing- but whenever the slightest urge to curse came over her, she felt consumed with guilt. She was her _mother_- how could she even think of saying something not nice? Father and Mummy provided them with a lovely home, with good things to eat and proper schooling and holidays in the country- so what if they were too busy to see much of them? Did it matter that Father had once shouted at Lucy for removing a number of his favorite antiques from the curio cabinet so she could create a magic city like the little boy in that Edith Nesbit book? Was it really all that important that Mother practically had a nervous breakdown when Edmund had pestered her for a week about getting a dog, like Nanna in _Peter Pan_, and claimed that she couldn't bear to have all those dog hairs nesting on her new Louis XV chairs, not to mention that having a great smelly beast would distract Father intolerably from writing his lectures? What did it matter, after all? They were her parents, and she should love them, no matter what.

When she finally opened her eyes, she grew aware that she lay in the middle of an enormous bed, in the middle of an ornate, sunlit bedroom, with a vague, out-of-focus group of faces gathered about her. "By the Lion's Mane!" one of the heads gasped. "She's awake!"

_What on earth_… thought Susan groggily. She attempted to sit up, when a hot hand suddenly grabbed hers. "Sister!" cried a feminine voice. "Oh sister, we have been so _worried _about you!"

Her eyes focused onto a pretty young woman- somewhere in her early twenties, she'd guess- who had long flowing flaxen hair, and a round, pink-cheeked face with a snub nose, and naïve blue eyes as large and unblinking as buttons. She looked vigorous, wholesome, and somewhat on the flat-chested side, and with the girl-next-door air she had about her, she reminded Susan of nothing more than a blond Judy Garland or Deanna Durbin. However, in the fantastically garish "medieval" blue-and-yellow frock she wore, she rather looked like she could be auditioning for the part of Maid Marian in a _Robin Hood_ pantomime. It then occurred to Susan that this girl looked nothing more than a stretched-out, grown-up version of Lucy in fancy dress. _God_, she thought queasily, _don't let that be Lucy, please_…

"Susan!" exclaimed the blond Maid Marian/Judy Garland. "Do you not recognize me? It is I, your sister Lucy!"

At that, her stomach practically sank to her toes. At that moment, all her Queen Susan memories flooded back, almost overwhelming her. Susan- not Queen Susan, of course, but plain old Susan Pevensie of Berkeley Square-struggled to remain afloat amongst all these images of elaborate galleons, and tournaments, and battles, and balls, and royal progresses. She didn't know how it all happened, but… somehow, many years ago, she and her siblings had come _here,_ to this Cloud Cuckoo-land with its castles and magical beasts. _Narnia_, that's what it was called. It almost seemed like something she and Lucy had dreamed up in their spare time- Lucy had such an imagination, and Susan was always game for a bit of make-believe, as long as she didn't have anything better to do.

Yet while they had lived here, in this other place, this Narnia, it had changed them, and turned them into other people- grown-ups to be exact. But they weren't the sort of grown-ups she had always admired in real life, or had even liked to look at in fan magazines and in films. They were the sort of grown-ups who had never existed- except in places like Andrew Lang's fairy books. She vividly remembered the illustrations from those books too, with the beautiful women in delicate, impractical drapery, and the knights who looked just like Arrow-Collar men, in equally delicate and impractical armor. She used to admire such pictures, and dream of herself in such exotic settings, sitting side-saddle behind a handsome French warrior, or flying on a magic carpet, her arms about some desirable Persian prince. Her stomach lurched suddenly. Yet childish wishing was one thing, and being stuck in a never-ending dream was something else altogether…

_So, _am_ I dreaming? _she asked herself wildly. Her left hand was still hidden under the sheets, so she took the opportunity to pinch her thigh, as hard as she could. Well, that definitely hurt! Nothing could hurt in a dream, she knew.

Unless, of course, she had gone completely mad.

She gaped at her stretched-out, grown-up sister, and began to feel rather nauseous. "Lucy?" she whispered, shaking a little. "Is that you? You look so… old…"

"Excuse me, your Majesties!" A small, strange looking man with- God above, _horns- _sticking out of his skull, bustled about to her bedside, and proffered her a drink in a crystal flagon, carved all over with unicorns. She glanced down to see that he had- incredibly- the legs of a goat, like a satyr from classical mythology. Or a faun, she remembered. He wore no trousers, like Mickey Mouse, and another glance told her that any "private areas" he had (the phrase her mother had used, during the one discussion they had about the "birds and the bees") was utterly concealed by hair. She couldn't help but notice that it was a very large and tangled thatch of hair too. Before she started to blush, she quickly fetched her mind out of the gutter and told herself that there were some subjects that were best left unplumbed.

"A posset for Queen Susan," said the trousers-less faun, "to calm her nerves."

"Oh, Mr. Tumnus!" said the strange grown-up Lucy. "Do you think it shall work?"

"Never fear, Queen Lucy. It worked on Peppersqueak the squirrel after he lost his acorn stash, and you know how agitated squirrels can get sometimes. Here you are, your Majesty. Drink."

Unreality washed over Susan again, as she took the unicorn glass from the faun, and drank. The drink- whatever it was- tasted delicious, like milk, honey, cinnamon and nutmeg, along with a dozen other spices she couldn't even name. She wasn't entirely sure it worked, since what she really wanted was some of her father's special brandy, or whatever was in that hip-flask that Uncle Harold drank from at Christmastime whenever Aunt Alberta wasn't looking. But at least she no longer felt like vomiting.

"Thank you, Mr- ah- Tumnus," said Susan.

The little faun bowed. "Your welcome, your Majesty."

"Sister!" exclaimed someone else at her bedside- and she turned around to see stretched-out, grown-up versions of Peter and Edmund, likewise attired in Robin Hood costumes. "Tell us, sister," said the elder of the two, the one who surely had to be Peter- although he rather looked more like a glamorous movie star like Henry Wilcoxon than the Peter she remembered. "How fare you at this moment? Does anything trouble your spirits? Let me know, and I shall do what lies in my power to soothe your woes."

"Well- uh- I guess I'm okay, Peter," stammered Susan, unthinkingly using American slang, which she knew Mother especially detested. "You needn't worry about me. I'll be fine."

Peter, Edmund, Lucy, and Mr. Tumnus stared at her. "Oh… kay?" said Lucy wonderingly. "Pray tell, sister, what mean you by such words?"

"I mean I'm fine," said Susan. "I'm dandy. Swell. Copacetic. I'm doing absolutely jolly good!" She suddenly wanted to start shrieking with laughter. What sort of world was she stuck in- that is, of course, if she wasn't stark staring mad- that everyone talked as if they were refugees from _The Boy's King Arthur_?

"Madam," said the stretched-out Edmund (who looked decidedly like Leslie Howard, now that she thought about it), "I pray you tell me one thing."

"Yes, Ed?" said Susan with a grin. "Ask away."

Prim King Edmund, with his blond hair worn in a Prince Valiant bob, and in his ridiculous dark blue doublet and hose, looked entirely disconcerted at her flippancy. _He's become a self-important thing, hasn't he?_ a mean little voice said inside of Susan. _Of course, not that it should surprise you- he always was a self-important little pill._ "Well, sister," he said loftily, raising his nose. "Did this Prince Rabadash behave in any way to bring upon your fainting spell? I have marked his attentions to you have been rather strong as of late. You could not of course have been seriously considering his suit!"

"By my halidom!" said King Peter, slapping his thigh. "I have noticed that too, sister. But say the word, and I shall send this Calormene stripling running back to Tashbaan, where he belongs!"

Overwhelmed, Susan sank back into her bed, pressing her hand to her forehead. At that, Mr. Tumnus- who, despite his lack of clothes, seemed to possess more sense than the rest of them- clicked his tongue. "Now, my lords," he said. "I believe we should leave the lady in peace. She has had a most trying day, and needs rest."

"Indeed so," Lucy chimed in. "He has it aright, my brothers. Our fair sister needs naught but sleep and peace to recover."

"'Twas merely the sun, I fear," said Susan with an exaggerated sigh, pressing her hand to her forehead like Juliet. "Oh! And the lacings upon my gown, I dare say. Do not fear, my dear ones, that this swart Calormene has aught to do with fainting spell. 'Twas merely my feminine weakness once again overcoming my constitution, during a time of great heat and hubbub. Do not trouble yourselves any further, although I do thank you for the love and concern for which you bear me." Dear God! She could do this faux-medieval speak disturbingly well… it was enough to make her wish for a good Benny Goodman record so she could practice her jitterbug!

At that, Lucy shooed the men out, and then turned to her sister. "Susan," she whispered. "If you need anything, you shall send for me, won't you?"

It was so peculiar to see the loving, trusting eyes of her eight year old sister in the face of this complete stranger. "Um… of course I will," said Susan, swallowing, wondering if she would choke.

"And please don't mind if I asked this- but it _wasn't_ Rabadash, was it? Forgive me, sister, but he does worry me so!"

"Don't worry, Lucy," she said. "My faint," she lied, "had absolutely nothing to do with Rabadash."

She crossed her fingers, hoping that Lucy wouldn't ask anything more. Susan knew, that if she were in Lucy's position, she would stay there and poke at her until she got an answer. Fortunately, Lucy- more than Susan herself- knew when to take a hint. She kissed her on the brow, and passed out the door, glancing at her one more time, her brow furrowed.

Mr. Tumnus was about to follow her, when Susan whispered:

"Hey there, Mr. Tumnus!"

The faun turned around, startled. "Yes, your Majesty?"

Susan felt rather naughty for asking this, but what the devil- in this world, she _was_ 26, wasn't she? Certainly more than old enough to drink. And by Jove, she needed a drink now, if she ever did! "Do you have any, ah- hooch around this place?"

Mr. Tumnus' round eyes practically popped out of his bearded little face. "_Hooch_, your Majesty?"

"Um, yes. Hooch. I mean, ah, booze, brandy, cognac, lager, cider, wine… alcohol? Really strong stuff that could knock out an elephant!"

Mr. Tumnus still stared at her as if she had fallen out of the sky. "I… believe I could find some of that, your Majesty."

"I shall be forever grateful if you could do so, Mr. Tumnus," said Susan. "For my nerves, you see." She wagged a finger at him. "Now, remember, don't tell _anyone_! Or I shall be frightfully cross."

The faun looked at sea, to be sure. "Yes, Queen Susan. Your word is my command. I shall go and find you some…hooch."

"Thank you ever so much!" She flashed her most charming smile at him. "The stronger, the better!"

Mr. Tumnus bowed, and departed from the room. As Susan sank back into her silken mounds of pillows, in the midst of this massive velvet-hung bed that was carved to look like a swan, that horrible, familiar feeling of being lost came over her again.

And she couldn't help but think that the sooner she drank herself into oblivion, the better.


End file.
